


There Now, Steady Love

by Jiksa



Category: BBC Radio 1 RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Awkward Flirting, First Time, Gratuitous References To Dinosaurs, Hand Jobs, Kid Fic, M/M, sweater paws
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-01-30 17:50:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12658458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jiksa/pseuds/Jiksa
Summary: Nick's just had his heart broken, Louis is surprisingly careful with it.Or, the one where Nick's a small time radio DJ & Louis's a single dad trying to make it as a musician.





	There Now, Steady Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dizzy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzy/gifts).



> Written for the [Tomlinshaw Fic Exchange 2017](https://tomlinshawexchange2017.tumblr.com/), for Dizzy's wonderful prompt: _Single dad/up and coming musician Louis doing a radio spot and hitting it off with Nick, who doesn't really go for that type (except for how he really really does)_. Hope this works for you, Dizzy!  <333 Thanks so much for the amazing prompts, I tried to work in your "first time" thing but accidentally made it all soft and sweet instead of snarky :P
> 
> Thanks to my favourite bear and the Non-Judging Breakfast Club for britpicking, beta reading and encouragement along the way. You're all golden. <3 Content note: Past minor character death, allusions to grief, past infidelity.

**Nick**  
The most humiliating thing — all things considered — wasn’t even coming home early to catch Seth and the Swedish Beefcake eating ice cream in bed, gloriously naked on Nick’s favorite flannel sheets, Nick’s favorite dildo glistening with lube on the bedside table. It wasn’t even Seth looking vaguely irritated at how Nick was “overreacting” as he asked the Swede to _get the absolute bloody fuck out of there_ , or how Seth declared Nick had been getting “too clingy” and “too serious” and that this relationship “wasn’t really working out anyway,” as he packed his bags.

It wasn’t even testing positive for suspiciously Scandinavian-like chlamydia at his latest doctor visit, or how Seth still owes him eighty-seven quid that he’s never going to pay back, or how Nick’s spent the last four months feeling weepy and pathetic and miserable, or even how he’s gained ten pounds from break-up-related comfort drinking alone.

It isn’t even that, despite multiple attempts at getting under someone else and over Seth, the lanky fucker remains the best sex Nick’s ever had, and his tight, round arse is still the first thing Nick thinks about when he reaches into his pants at night, and his absent shoulder’s still the first thing Nick reaches for in the mornings. He's still the first thing on Nick’s mind when a sad song comes on the radio.

It isn’t even that Nick wondered — for the briefest, maddest of moments — what _happily ever after_ might look like with Seth. What it might be like to chase little nippers around the garden and have a permanent tan line on his left ring finger, what it would feel like to be loved proper and good and forever.

“Nice to see you’ve finally found someone,” Eileen had said the first time Nick brought Seth home to Oldham, her eyes smiling as Seth ducked out for a cigarette before pudding. “I was starting to think it would never happen for you.”

He still hasn’t had the balls to tell her it’s over, and that’s not the worst part either.

No, the most humiliating thing happens late on a Tuesday morning, as Nick’s nursing a hangover behind the mic at Radio Manchester’s Breakfast Show. Rihanna’s singing about _finding love in a hopeless place_ while Nick scrolls idly through his Facebook feed and eats a greasy sausage butty. Fiona’s looking at kitten heels on the ASOS website, humming to herself, and Clara’s hovering in the Live Lounge as she waits for her own slot to start.

There’s an old, beaten-up piano in there, draped in fairy lights and covered in terrible, child-like drawings. Nick’s had butterflies all week waiting for this afternoon’s performance, the way he used to get before Christmas as a child, the way he gets before interviewing anyone vaguely important. Louis Tomlinson isn’t really proper famous or anything, but Nick’s a little bit in love with his debut album.

He freezes when he catches Seth’s photo post mid-scroll, bits of partially chewed bread and sausage still in his mouth. _Happy six months, baby,_ the caption reads. _Can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you._

The most humiliating part of it all, in the end, is how the Swedish Beefcake is wearing one of Nick’s jumpers in the selfie, the black one Nick had custom made with his dog doodled on the side. The Swede is flashing what is unmistakably an engagement ring, _four_ months after Seth and Nick’s break-up, while Seth still owes Nick eighty-seven pounds, and Nick’s mum is still _sending her love to Seth_ every time they talk on the phone.

Nick reads it again, fixates on it, _Happy six months, baby,_ , and then it hits him like a punch to the stomach.

“Nick,” Fiona calls, a note of alarm in her voice as Nick throws off his headset and bolts for the studio door. “Twenty-three seconds! Nick! Where are you—”

There’s nothing for it. He barely makes it into the bathroom down the hall, spitting bits of bread and sausage into the toilet, and then the rest of his sandwich follows, and then bitter bile and snot and tears, then he’s crumbling against the side of the stall, shaking apart against his folded-up knees.

No one comes looking for him; thank God. He cries until the worst of the shock’s worn off, his phone vibrating in his hand as Fiona (or Liam, or Will, or someone) tries to get a hold of him. He can’t bring himself to look; he only had two links to go and Clara was right outside, anyway. It’ll be fine; he can blame his sudden departure on lactose intolerance and diarrhoea, and they’ll pretend to believe him and everything will be fine.

His life may still be crumbling around him and he might still be out eighty-seven quid and his favourite sweater might be on someone else’s bedroom floor, stretched out from massive Scandinavian shoulders, but otherwise everything will be _so fine._

He’s just caught his breath when he hears the door to the bathroom swing open and feet shuffling inside. He wipes furiously at his face, trying to clean off the evidence. He’ll say he accidentally had regular milk instead of soya milk. He’ll put on his sunglasses and sneak out the back and say he’s got somewhere to be. It’ll be fine.

“Can I tell you a secret?” the new arrival is saying, sweet and low from the other side of the bathroom cubicle. Nick frowns; he vaguely recognises the voice but can’t place it. Before he’s wrapped his head around an appropriate reply, he hears, “Daddy’s a little bit scared in his tummy, okay? Like you get sometimes when we go on roller coasters.”

“Don’t be scared, Daddy,” a small voice answers, and it all makes a touch more sense. “You’re a big boy now.”

The child’s father laughs. “I know. I need a big super hero high five, anyway.” There’s a clack of palms and a ruffling of clothes and what sounds like a chaste kiss. “Thanks, little man. You’re the best.”

“No, you are.” The child sighs. “Daddy, I’ve gotta _go_.”

Impatient little feet stamp on the tiled floor and the realisation hits Nick horribly and belatedly. There’s only one working toilet; the second bearing an _out of order_ sign on the cubicle door after some incident or other during Greg’s last show. He briefly debates whether to drown himself in the toilet bowl or attempt to crawl out of the tiny air vent above the loo. He awkwardly picks himself off the floor and flushes his breakfast and sick. It still stinks, a gross vomity film sticking to the sides of the bowl even after the second flush. His hands are shaking as he blows his nose again. His T-shirt’s all wet around the collar. There’s no way he’s getting out of this with his dignity intact.

“Mate,” the guy says from the other side of the door, knocking once. “Hate to rush you, but we’ve got a little emergency out here.”

“Sorry,” Nick says as he maneuvers his way out of the stall, brushing past the two of them and resolutely not meeting anyone’s eyes. He flicks the tap on and reaches for the soap dispenser and keeps his head down. “I didn’t realise anyone was, I mean, sorry.”

“No worries,” the guy says as he helps his child onto the toilet seat. Another wave of nausea swells in Nick’s stomach as he places the guy’s voice, this morning’s butterflies all taking flight at once. “Hey. You’re Grimmy, from Breakfast. I’m Louis, we spoke on the phone earlier—”

“Uh, yeah,” Nick says, washing his hands very carefully and meticulously scrubbing his nail beds. He can’t bring himself to look into the mirror or into Louis Tomlinson’s eyes. “Sorry, I, uh, threw up. It smells in there. I’m not supposed to have cheese. I tried to flush it, but—”

“Oh,” Louis says. “Feel a little bit like I’m going to throw up as well, if I’m honest. Nerves.”

Nick exhales, grabbing a paper towel and drying his hands off. They’re still shaking, or maybe they’re shaking all over again. He’s been looking forward to this Live Lounge all week, and now he just wants to slip his sunglasses on and sneak out the back door and pretend none of this ever happened. “You’ll be fine. Just picture Clara naked if you get nervous.”

“Not really my type,” Louis laughs. There’s a soft edge to his voice when he says, “You alright? You don’t look so well. I could get you some water.”

Nick makes the gross miscalculation of glancing up at him. Christ, he’s even fitter in person, kind eyes and soft hair and too-big jumper hanging off of narrow shoulders. How utterly, horribly inconvenient. “I’m not supposed to have cheese,” he says again. He can’t even imagine what he looks like, but he feels all puffy and swollen and wet and pink. “Makes me sick.”

Louis nods slowly, a small furrow between his eyebrows. “I can get you some water, if you like.”

Nick’s standing beside a sink. “I am standing beside a sink.”

“Maybe you should drink some water, then.” Louis reaches across and flips the tap back on, twisting it until the water runs cold. He smells like aftershave and a little bit like nervous sweat. The back of Nick’s mouth still tastes like sick. “Just a little bit, you’ll feel better.”

Nick doesn’t want to, but he also doesn’t want to keep looking at Louis when Louis’s face looks like _that_. He bends down and drinks a little, closing his eyes in relief. He splashes some of it into his face.

Louis’s holding some paper towels in his hands when Nick emerges, his smile soft and strange as he hands them over. “You sure you’re alright?”

Nick dabs at his face, and then, out of nowhere, stupidly, because he’s got no defenses against random acts of kindness, because Louis’s looking at him like he actually gives a shit, because Nick needs to tell someone and he can’t bear the humiliation of telling someone who actually knows him, he blurts, “My ex cheated on me with a Swedish underwear model and now they’re engaged. So.”

“Shite,” Louis says, his mouth twisting in sympathy. “No wonder you reached for the cheese.”

Nick swallows. “I didn’t really have any cheese.”

Louis doesn’t say, _Obviously_. Nick is eternally grateful. Instead he asks, “Did she have the balls to tell you herself, at least?”

“No, it’s— _he_.” He watches Louis’s face for a reaction, but there isn’t really one beyond more gentle concern. Nick wants to hug him. He wants to fucking _be hugged_ by him. “He stole my jumper and still owes me eighty-seven quid. I found out on Facebook.”

“That’s a bit shit.”

“ _He_ was a bit shit, I think.”

“Good thing you’re shot of him, then.” Louis says, then turns as his child waddles out of the cubicle with his trousers around his knees. He looks like a smaller version of Louis, with wild blond hair and his father’s bright blue eyes. They’re both in jogging bottoms and cosy sweaters, color coordinated like a little two-man team. Louis crouches down. “You need a hand, little man?”

The little boy shakes his head, but he lets Louis pull his trousers back up without protest. He leans into his dad’s side, his eyes wide and wary when he looks at Nick. “T-Rex doesn’t eat veggies.”

Nick’s not great with children at the best of times, but… “Sorry?”

Louis smiles up at him. “Your jumper. It’s Freddie’s favorite dinosaur.”

“Oh,” Nick murmurs, patting the side of his ribs, roughly where he thinks the head of the T-Rex is. “Likes a steak, this guy.”

“He’s a carnivore,” the boy says, frowning like he’s not sure whether to trust Nick. “That means he doesn’t have to eat his veggies.”

“Lucky dino,” Nick supplies. “I wouldn’t eat brussel sprouts either, if I didn’t have to.”

“Freddie doesn’t like brussel sprouts, does he?” Louis grins at his kid, who sticks his tongue out and shakes his head so vigorously he nearly topples over. Louis leans in to whisper loudly into his ear, _I think my friend Nick needs a big superhero high five, too._ The boy frowns at his dad, then at Nick, before taking a cautious step forwards and holding his hand up.

Something soft and tender clenches in Nick’s chest. He folds over to tap his hand gently against Freddie’s outstretched one, grinning despite himself when their hands meet. “Whoa. Thanks, mate.”

“It’s only for superheroes,” Freddie says quietly, folding back against his dad’s side and looking a little dubious. “You can’t tell anyone. It’s a secret.”

“Won’t say a word,” Nick promises. “Me and T-Rex will keep your secret. Gives a rubbish high five, this one. Tiny arms.”

Freddie grins a little. “I bet he can’t even scratch his bum.”

“Worst, that.” Nick runs his hand through his quiff. He doesn’t really know how to talk to little people. “Are you excited to see your da sing some songs?”

Freddie looks at his dad and shrugs. “I guess.”

“Number one fan, right here.” Louis laughs. “He wasn’t really supposed to come today, but he had a vaccination last night and isn’t feeling well enough for nursery today. I couldn’t get anyone to watch him on short notice, so he’s going to sit very quietly in a chair and play some games on the phone while Daddy plays piano, isn’t he?”

Freddie sighs. “Can we go home instead? I want to go to the pool with Auntie Lottie.”

“We’re going to the pool on Sunday,” Louis promises gently, squeezing his kid’s shoulders. “I just need you to sit quietly for thirty minutes, okay? Daddy’s gonna talk to Clara and play a few songs on the piano. We’ll get chips and gravy after, okay? You can play that game you like on my—”

“But that’s boring,” Freddie argues, stomping his little foot. “I don’t want to—”

“Freddie, I know it’s boring, but I have to—”

“I could—” Nick starts, surprising himself. “I could hang out, if Freddie wanted. We can talk about dinosaurs, maybe find some videos on Youtube.”

Louis looks up at Nick, his brow furrowed. Christ, he looks way too good from that angle. “You don’t— I’m sure you’ve got other things to—”

“No, I’ll— Uh. I don’t mind.” Nick very carefully doesn’t point out that he’s been looking forward to watching Louis play all week, or that he’s maybe got tickets to see him this weekend, or that those butterflies in his belly maybe aren’t just for Louis’s songs. “Especially if I can have another superhero high five.”

Freddie makes a face as he considers it. “Maybe. We’ll see how good you are at dinosaurs.”

Louis snorts out a laugh and kisses the top of Freddie’s head. “Be nice to Nick, okay? He’s a little sad today.”

“Don’t be sad, Nick.” Freddie says, looking slightly exasperated. “You’re a big boy now.”

“Right,” Nick says, surprising himself by having to bite down on a smile. “I’ll try to act like one.”

Louis’s answering grin makes that same tender, soft thing in Nick’s chest clench up again.

 

—

 

Louis looks positively green before he ducks into the Live Lounge, pacing and fretting and humming vocal warm ups to himself as Clara gets through the first part of her show. Nick sits on a sofa beside Freddie, one arm loosely wrapped around his waist, as he plays something with exploding berries on Louis’s phone and natters on about velociraptors. Fiona comes round with cups of tea and blessedly doesn’t say anything about Nick storming off earlier. She sits next to him for a moment and doesn’t say anything about him looking a mess. She’s good like that.

The lights are turned down low when Louis takes a seat by the piano, his nervous face illuminated only by the fairy lights draped over the instrument. He shouldn’t make sense, this young boy against this old piano, his small capable hands gliding over the keys, fast and nimble and precise. He squeezes his eyes shut, raising his shoulders as he leans into his songs, his voice high and breathy and plaintive as he sings, _Hurry up and wait, my heart has started to separate_.

He sings his songs like they still hurt, his voice even more haunting live than on his record. Not that Nick’s been miserably crying to it for months, or anything.

He nudges Freddie’s side. “Your dad’s a bit alright, isn’t he?”

Freddie shrugs, leaning his head back against Nick’s shoulder. When Louis isn’t playing, he pulls his sleeves down like sweater mittens and holds his cup of tea with two hands. He talks amicably with Clara, his nerves settling noticeably with each link. He keeps looking over to Nick and his son, and smiling. “He’s the best.”

Nick feels strangely warm inside, this little human trusting him enough to lean this close, that beautiful boy smiling at them through the glass. “You feeling okay, little man?”

“Mm,” Freddie hums, yawning a little and burrowing closer. “I had a needle in my arm that made me sick.”

“I hate needles,” Nick says gently, reaching up to pet Freddie’s hair. “They’re the worst.”

Louis looks so tiny in his big jumper, cosy and warm and nervous. Nick wants to hug him.

Nick wants to fucking _hug_ him, what kind of Reese Witherspoon romantic comedy shit is this? Clearly this morning’s Facebook-related trauma has broken his brain in some way, and Nick has accidentally mixed everything up in his head because Louis’s been singing to him in his car, and in his shower, and while Nick’s been drinking and crying and feeling pathetic in bed, and then Louis made him drink some water and handed him a paper towel and trusted him with his brilliant child, and now his brain’s gone and gotten everything confused.

“So where’s your mummy today?” Nick asks, keeping his voice down so no one can hear him. A bit shit, this, asking a child for information, but he sorely needs a reality check. “I bet she likes it when your daddy plays piano.”

“She’s in the clouds,” Freddie says sleepily, yawning again. “She had to go to heaven when I was little, so she could be an angel.”

Nick’s stomach drops. It makes his stupid longing for eighty-seven quid and his stupid jumper seem utterly meaningless. It gives the ache in Louis’s songs a new meaning. It makes Nick want to hug him all over again, and be careful and good and kind to him.

“Maybe we can make this raspberry explode,” Nick says gently, prodding at Louis’s phone in his hand. Freddie’s stopped paying attention though, opting instead to rest against Nick’s shoulder with his eyes half-lidded. “I bet that one will explode if we press it hard enough.”

Freddie makes a non-committal sound and Nick tries to focus on exploding berries, and not how Louis’s mouth opens around his aching words, how his fingers caress the keys, how he tilts his head to the side when he’s hitting a high note.

“He’s cute,” Fiona murmurs, as she’s pulling on her coat and Louis’s wrapping up his performance on the other side of the glass. “No wonder you won’t shut up about him.”

“Not really my type,” Nick lies. “I just really love his record, is all.”

Fiona arches an eyebrow, glancing down at the child dozing on Nick’s shoulder. She knows how nervous he was before Louis called in this morning; she knows Nick’s got tickets for this weekend; she knows _Nick_. “Hope you’re okay, Grim.”

Nick forces a smile. She won’t prod him for details about storming off this morning, but she’ll listen once he can bring himself to tell her. She’s good like that. “Cheers, love.”

 

—

 

Louis looks surprised when he comes out of the Live Lounge, his cheeks a little flushed and his sweater paws tucked under his armpits. “He’s actually asleep.”

Nick wants to kiss the little boy’s head, wants to tell Louis he’ll walk them to the car or the bus or wherever they’re going, that he’ll cook them dinner and pour Louis a glass of wine and say anything to make him smile. “The average man only knows so many fun facts about velociraptors,” he says instead, because this is _work_ and there are _boundaries_ and he’s _fucking terrified_ of how much he wants all of those things. “Suppose he thought I was dead boring after those ran out.”

Louis smiles, sipping his tea and not saying anything. Nick wishes they were alone. “I have a gig at the _Soup Kitchen_ this Saturday,” Louis says. Nick very carefully doesn’t say _I know_.“I brought you guys some tickets, if you wanted to give them out to listeners, or whatever.”

Nick doesn’t really know why Louis’s giving them to him and not to Clara, but he’s not going to argue. “Thanks, we appreciate that.”

Louis finishes his tea and looks at his little boy asleep on Nick’s shoulder. He looks so impossibly soft and fond. “I guess I should...”

“Yeah,” Nick says, swallowing thickly. He still feels warm all over. His hand is splayed protectively across Freddie’s back, and he’s holding him close against his chest as he sleeps, like he’s some sort of functioning adult person capable of looking after someone else. “Me, too.”

“I’ll take him,” Louis says, leaning in to pick him gently out of Nick’s arms. It’s strangely intimate, how close it makes them, how warm Louis is all up against him, how he smells like tea and after-shave and fresh sweat, how Nick wants to feel his facial hair against the side of his own neck, how he wants to _kiss_ him, how he wants to—

He needs to get a grip.

“Thanks for the… earlier,” Nick says after that, as Louis’s bouncing his son gently in his arms and not leaving. “You know, bathroom cheese thing.”

Louis smiles, his cheeks still the most beautiful pink from his performance. Nick wishes it was for him. “Might need to stay away from that cheese,” he murmurs. “You deserve better than shit snacks that make you sad.”

Nick nods, and Louis smiles again, slow and sweet and kind, and then he’s gone.

Nick holds the tickets in his sweating hands and thinks, _Saturday_.

 

 **Louis**  
It doesn’t happen on purpose.

His radio’s still tuned to Radio Manchester, is the thing, and when he wakes up in the morning, it’s to Nick being cheerful and happy and teasing his news anchor about wearing Crocs to a party, or rambling neurotically about how much he hates stepping on newspapers, or talking about his dogs weeing on all of his shoes. Louis recognises Fiona from the station, the banter easy between them as they move in and out of songs and stories and news.

Louis can’t stop thinking about how tiny Freddie looked against Nick’s side, his mouth slack against Nick’s shoulder and a little pool of saliva darkening Nick’s shirt after he’d fallen asleep. How Nick stayed back after work and watched Louis intently through the glass, how it made Louis feel all warm and special inside, how he closed his eyes and felt Nick’s eyes on him and momentarily forgot that his voice was being broadcast across the Greater Manchester area.

He’s listening on Thursday morning when Nick gives the two concert tickets away to a surprisingly excited girl from Moss Side. He’s listening when Nick introduces his song after, when he talks about what a spectacular Live Lounge Louis did and what a great record he’s just put out and all sorts of things he probably says about everyone.

He knows he’s probably imagining the smile in Nick’s voice when he says Louis’s name, but it’s just… it’s nice, is all.

Wanking off to Nick’s voice, however, is an accident.

He just wakes up horny on Friday morning, and the radio’s on, and he’s reaching into his pants and closing his eyes and letting Nick’s voice wash over him before he even realises what he’s doing. Nick’s talking about flirting awkwardly with the man who sells him curry, and how he can never go back to that takeaway shop again after an incident last week. Fiona teases him mercilessly about it, but Louis can hear the fondness in her voice.

He brings himself off quickly, thinking about Nick’s big hands and gorgeous mouth and what it felt like to be _watched_ so intently while he played piano. Looking up at Nick while kneeling on the floor in that bathroom is a thought he can’t quite get out of his mind. He liked the view. He thinks he might even like it a lot more with Nick’s fly undone and Nick’s hands in his hair and Nick telling him what to do. 

He hasn’t really thought about anyone like that for a long while. It’s... nice. He texts Lottie, _Think I might kind of maybe fancy someone._

Later that morning, the radio’s on in the bathroom as Freddie asks, “Can Nick come to my birthday party?”

Louis frowns, squeezing toothpaste onto his little _Frozen_ toothbrush. Nick’s talking about his dogs again, about Stinky having loud, barking conversations with a neighbouring dog all night. “Your birthday’s not for another three months.”

“Then he’s got time to get me a present,” Freddie says, sucking all the toothpaste off like it’s a treat. Louis really needs to get him a less tasty toothpaste. “I think he’d get me a nice one.”

Louis tries to stifle his smile. “I think so, too.”

His phone finally flashes with a reply from Lottie after he’s dropped Freddie off at nursery. _TOOK YOU LONG ENOUGH. How exciting. Where’d you meet her?_

Louis only hesitates for a moment, pressing his forehead against the steering wheel and taking a deep breath. _At the radio the other day. Think he just got out of a messy relationship, so it’s probably not the best idea, but…_

...but he hasn’t really wanted anyone in years, and now that he’s suddenly remembered how, he can’t seem to help himself. So what if it’s a bloke?

Lottie calls him immediately, and then tries two more times when he nervously lets the calls go to voicemail. _Wasn’t a typo,_ he writes finally, biting down on his lip. _He’s just really special. Do you think it’s too soon?_

She sends three happy blushing emojis and a suspiciously rainbow-themed row of hearts and then, _Nah, babe. I think it’s about bloody time._

 

 **Nick**  
All week Nick’s wondered if it was the Facebook-related meltdown, or the fact that he’s been crying to Louis’s record for months, or the fact that he’s a fucked up, emotionally stunted fuckwit who gets pathetically obsessed with people at the smallest displays of kindness.

He’d asked Seth to move in after shagging him for two months, after Seth had gotten him a box of throat lozenges from Tesco Express while Nick was ill. It had felt like being loved, like he was special, like Seth had gone out of his way to be good to him when he was poorly. Before that, he’d asked Nicco to be his boyfriend after Nicco had said, “You’re not as crap as you think you are, you know.”

Aimee once told him, _We accept the love we think we deserve_ over shots at a bar in Canal Street. Nick had rolled his eyes, pretending he didn’t know what she was on about, before trying to work out where Seth had disappeared to. He’d found him in a corner of the beer garden, sharing a cigarette with an unnecessarily muscular Swedish guy and looking vaguely irritated that Nick was being _clingy_ again.

He hasn’t really thought much about Seth all week. Instead he’s watched Jurassic Park with his dogs and bought fairy lights on eBay and met Aimee and Ian for dumplings in Chinatown. He feels lighter, happier, a little like things might be okay again sometime soon. Like maybe he might deserve more love than what he’s been getting, or something.

It’s probably a trap, all things considered. But he still goes to the Soup Kitchen on Saturday night, standing at the back of the room and nursing a pint as he texts Fiona, _Guess who’s getting married to the Swedish Beefcake. Sorry I didn’t tell you sooner._.

She texts back immediately, all in caps lock, which is how Nick knows she’s hit the _shots of ouzo_ portion of family dinner at her boyfriend’s house. _SETH IS A CUNNNT AND YOU DESREVE BETTER GRIM,,, TAKING YOU TU BRUCNH TMROW_.

All week Nick’s wondered if he’s been pathetic and naive and read too much into things, and then Louis takes the stage with a gracious wave to his audience and sits down at his piano and opens his mouth, and the room falls dead quiet. Nick’s heart, on the other hand, more or less explodes.

Louis plays a beautiful show, looking significantly more at ease in front of a crowd of adoring fans than he did in the relative silence of Radio Manchester’s studio. He makes silly banter between songs, telling sweet little stories about the songs that don’t seem like they’re about someone he loved passing away.

Nick can’t work out how long it’s been, not that it’s any of his business. 

He stays near the back of the room, watching him with his heart in his throat, hoping Louis can’t see him past the glare of stage lights. He can’t shake the feeling he’s crossed some sort of line by showing up here, even if he’d already bought his tickets weeks ago, even if he’s not really expecting anything to happen. He _wants_ , though; a loud and greedy and reckless sort of want, and that never ends well for him.

There’s a moment near the end, where the stage lights come down and it’s just Louis and a string of fairy lights glowing on his battered old piano, and he sings, _there now, steady love, so few come and don’t go_ and _it’s always have and never hold_ and _but be my baby, I’ll look after you_.

There’s another moment where Nick’s certain Louis’s spotted him, and he presses back against the wall behind him and ducks his head, and if it sounds like Louis fumbles his lyrics, then that was probably just wishful thinking on Nick’s part.

He smokes three cigarettes in quick succession once the show ends, watching people pile out of the venue and disappearing down Spear Street towards more booze or public transport, or whatever they’re looking for out there. There’s a small group of kids waiting outside the backstage door, mostly girls with bright hair and smudged eyeliner and battered Converse shoes.

He doesn’t have Louis’s number, and it’s probably weird just showing up at Louis’s gig by himself and loitering outside of it, and he should probably just… go, before he makes a fool of himself.

But he doesn’t want to. 

He’s self-consciously looking up bus times when the backstage door finally opens, and then he hears Louis’s sweet laughter as he talks to his fans. He calls everyone _love_ and _lovely_ and _babe_ , the Yorkshire emphasised in his voice as he poses for photos and gives long, crushing hugs to anyone that wants one.

Nick stands at the periphery, chewing his lips and watching him. Louis meets his eyes for a brief moment, giving him a slow, gentle, unsurprised smile, before asking a girl how to spell her name as he signs her vinyl sleeve.

And then everyone’s gone, and it’s just the two of them and Louis takes a slow step towards him, saying, “Nobody else wanted the tickets, huh?”

Nick feels warm all over as Louis pulls at the sleeves of his sweater until they’re bunched up in his palms. It’s not the one he wore on stage, this one old and worn and cosy warm. He looks so impossibly _soft_. “Uh, no, someone won them. Suppose I had a ticket already, though.”

Louis frowns a little. “I guess you get them for free, doing radio and all that.”

It feels like a risk to say it, and it makes his stomach swoop, but, “No, I paid for them. A while ago.”

“Oh.”

Nick swallows thickly. “Yeah.”

He says, “Can I—” just as Louis says, “Do you—” and then they both fall silent.

“You were really good tonight,” Nick says awkwardly, then takes a steadying breath and just mans the fuck up. “Must make you thirsty, though, all that singing.”

“I have water on stage.”

Nick rubs the back of his neck. “I think I’m asking you out for a pint, Louis.”

Louis looks taken aback, his eyes darting around like he’s nervous they’ve been overheard. “Oh,” he says softly, tucking his sweater paws under his armpits. His cheeks look rosy again. _Nervous_ is a good look on him. “I’ve only got the sitter ‘til midnight unfortunately.”

“Oh. Maybe another—”

“No,” Louis blurts. “I’d. Maybe. Uh. I live not far from here, if you wanted to… I mean, walking distance. If you wanted to have a drink at mine.”

Louis flushes again— a deep, beautiful crimson, this time— and Nick thinks, _Oh, his mind went there, too._

 

—

 

The walk to Louis’s flat is strangely quiet. Nick feels a mad urge to reach for Louis’s hand, or to tell him how much he loves his songs, or to say how beautiful he looks when he closes his eyes and sings, but instead they talk a little bit about Freddie, and the weather, and how they can’t believe it’s almost Christmas already. It still feels like they’re saying plenty though, with how Louis’s elbow bumps against Nick’s, how the street lights catch in his smiling eyes, how he keeps hiding shy smiles in the fluffy scarf around his neck.

Nick can’t remember ever having been this nervous about going home with someone. 

He stands awkwardly by the kitchen counter while Louis talks to his babysitter. Louis’s place is messy and lived-in, full of children’s toys and piles of folded laundry and scattered sports things. There are dishes in the sink and pictures stuck to the fridge with magnets, a blonde girl who looks like Freddie holding a sleeping baby against her chest. Nick wonders, again, how long it’s been, how much it still hurts, how many people have been in Louis’s bed since. 

Louis’s flat’s in a state Nick would’ve apologised profusely for if he’d had someone over unexpectedly, but Louis doesn’t really seem bothered. 

“Um,” Louis says, once it's just the two of them, and everything in Nick's head is yelling _kiss me_. He clinks his beer against Nick’s and leans back against the kitchen counter opposite him. “Thanks for coming tonight. You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to,” Nick says dumbly, chewing at a dry bit on his lip. Louis makes him so fucking nervous. “Wanted to see you sing again.”

Louis ducks his head, smiling to himself as he picks at the label of his beer. “Oh. Thanks.”

Nick takes another deep, steadying breath, before manning the fuck up again. “Wanted to see _you_ again.”

“I— Nick. Um.”

 _Nick._ No one calls him that unless they know him. “I hope that’s okay.”

“No, that’s—” Louis lets out a shaky exhale, still not looking up from the floor. He taps the kitchen tiles with his socked foot. “That’s. Me, too. I think.”

Nick’s heart is hammering in his chest. He takes a long sip of beer, trying to settle his nerves. “You think?”

“No, I— Yeah, me too. Definitely. Me too.”

“Oh. Good.”

They both take long swigs of their drinks, and then Louis finally meets his eyes and breaks into another one of those beautiful, shy smiles. “I’m sorry, I’m not— I don’t really do this much.”

“What,” Nick asks, hugging his bottle against his chest. He wants _so much_ it makes him feel a little sick. “Have people ‘round for drinks?”

“Guys,” Louis says, his cheeks tinged pink. “I don’t— I mean, I haven’t. Not really. Guys, you know. Or, anyone, really, since before Freddie was born. I hope that’s not... weird for you.”

“Oh.” Nick frowns, wondering if he’s misunderstood everything, if all of this is maybe too fast, if maybe he’s read too much into this. “We don’t have to do anything, if you don’t want—”

“I do,” he blurts, his eyes flickering nervously between Nick’s eyes and his mouth. “Want. I do. _Want._ ”

Nick takes a few moments to collect himself, before gently putting the bottle down on the kitchen counter. He takes a cautious step towards him. Louis’s still tugging at his sweater paws and only barely meeting his eyes, and Nick just wants to fucking _hug_ him. 

“Is this okay?” Nick asks, once he’s close enough that Louis could kiss him if he just turned his head.

“Mm,” Louis hums. His cheeks are a bright, beautiful red. He puts a careful hand on Nick’s chest, curled into a fist around the sleeve of his sweater. He’s so warm. He smells so nice. “Yeah. It’s fine. Sorry, I’m. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Nick lets out a breath, curling his fingers gently around the back of Louis’s neck. Louis’s shaking against him. Nick wants to be so fucking careful with him, wants to hold him tight and keep him safe and never let anything hurt him. “Can I kiss you?”

”Please,” Louis whispers, and Nick leans in to nuzzle Louis’s nose with his own. They stay like that for a while, only breathing and nothing else. Nick doesn’t think he’s ever been so nervous about kissing anyone in his entire life.

Louis tilts his head up the slightest bit, and Nick has to close his eyes at how hard it hits him. It’s only chaste at first, just Louis’s soft breath against Nick’s mouth and his dry lips brushing tentatively over Nick’s, but Nick feels it all over.

Louis slowly unclenches his sweater paw fists, stretching his fingers out across Nick’s pecs and sliding one hand up to cup Nick’s jaw. He runs the tip of his tongue over Nick’s, catches Nick’s upper lip with his teeth, makes Nick want to moan and beg and _keep him_.

Louis’s still shaking, and Nick doesn’t even think he’s the only one. It’s just— it’s mad, how just kissing Louis makes Nick feel warm and scared and strangely desperate, how different it feels from anyone else he’s ever kissed.

They kiss for ages, slow and hot and delicious kisses, until they’re both hard and sweating and panting softly. Nick pulls back to say something, but Louis just chases his mouth for another kiss, pressing even closer. Nick has to cup his chin for a bit of distance, laughing. “Still okay?”

“Yeah,” Louis whispers, and for all that Nick fucking hates whispering, he loves it from Louis’s mouth. He suspects he might love anything from Louis’s mouth. “Don’t really want to do anything in my kitchen, though.”

Nick licks his lips, pulling back to give him some space. “Don’t have to do anything at all. Promise.”

“No, I meant—” Louis kisses him again, sliding one hand into Nick’s and linking their fingers. His hand’s so small and clammy in Nick’s, perfect. “I meant my bedroom’s upstairs. If you wanted.”

And the thing is, the thing that’s going to possibly ruin all of this, the thing that should be a big, blinking red warning sign, is that Nick fucking _wants_.

 

 **Louis**  
It’s still slow once they’re curled up in Louis’s bed, on top of the covers with all of their clothes still on. Louis thought they might get undressed and do… _things_ , but Nick seems happy just to kiss him and stroke his jaw and hide smiles against Louis’s clumsy, eager mouth.

It feels like it’s been hours already, and Nick hasn’t so much as reached under the hem of Louis’s sweater or touched him anywhere below the waist. It’s worse than college, this. It definitely isn’t what Louis imagined getting into bed with a man might be like.

It might actually be better. So, so, so much better.

He’s hot and warm and damp all over, so fucking desperately hard, almost light-headed with how turned on he is. And yet Nick’s being so careful with him, taking things maddeningly slow, keeping his hips back so Louis won’t feel how hard he must be.

Nick plays with his fingers and kisses his neck and smiles against his mouth, kisses him like there’s absolutely nothing else he’d rather be doing, and Louis gets inexplicably choked up at how special it all feels. How special Nick makes him feel.

Nick groans when Louis’s teeth catch on his bottom lip, his hips moving in response. Louis reaches down with a tentative hand, palming the back of Nick’s thigh and pressing closer, getting a knee between Nick’s until they’re all flush against each other, until he can feel how hard Nick is between his legs.

“Louis,” Nick breathes out, sounding pained and wrecked and desperate. “What— tell me what you want to do.”

Louis wants to say _take your clothes off_ and _get inside me_ and _stay all night_ , but the words don’t make it past his lips. “Whatever, I’m not— whatever.”

Nick cups his jaw, pulling back to look at him again. He’s all soft-eyed and disheveled, his hair damp and falling in his eyes. He reaches down to stroke Louis’s chest, his nipples, down to rub circles on his stomach. It makes desire curl low in Louis’s belly, hot and sticky and dizzying. “Is this okay?”

Louis swallows. “Yeah.”

Nick licks his lips again, glancing down between their bodies. “Do you want me to...?”

Louis is so fucking desperately hard he doesn’t know what to do with himself. It’s been so long since he’s had anyone else’s hands on him like this. “Yeah.”

Nick holds his gaze while he reaches down, one hand slipping into Louis’s jogging bottoms and into his boxers and—

“Oh fuck,” Louis hisses, squeezing his eyes shut when Nick’s big, warm, sure hand wraps around him. He digs his nails into Nick’s bicep, burying his face in Nick’s neck, trying desperately not to come right there and then. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Hey.” Nick nuzzles his face until their lips meet again, whispering, “Look at me.”

Louis forces himself to meet Nick’s gaze. “Nick,” he says. _Begs_ , there’s no other word for it. “Gonna come. Sorry.”

Nick smiles, his eyes bright and fond. He moves his hand slowly in Louis’s pants, working up a rhythm that has Louis shaking against him in mere seconds. “Kind of the point, love.”

“Nick,” Louis begs again, trying not to buck into the tight grip Nick has on him, kissing him desperately, all teeth and breath and graceless, greedy _want_ , and then he can’t hold back anymore. “Oh fuck, Nick, fuck.”

Nick waits until he’s stopped jerking and gasping before he rolls Louis gently onto his back and rolls on top of him and kisses his mouth again, and again, and again, and again, and again.

 

 

 **Nick**  
Post-sex tea comes with a wholesome spread of fruit and biscuits in the Tomlinson home, Nick is pleased to learn. The sky’s still black outside when Louis offers to make some, and then he looks sleepy and disheveled and clumsy as he crawls out of bed and ambles down the hallway. He’s in pants, still, his jumper from earlier hanging off his narrow shoulders. 

He looks a rumpled mess. He looks gorgeous.

Nick watched him handle Nick’s jumper for the briefest moment earlier, before draping it carefully over the footboard and pulling on his own instead. Nick couldn’t help himself, he had to drag him back into bed by one of his too-long sleeves and kiss him and think, _Wear mine next time._

He sits back against Louis’s headboard once he hears the kettle, hugging his knees against his chest. It feels nice, this, curling up under Louis’s blankets in nothing but his pants. He doesn’t know what they’ll do if his kid wakes up, if Louis would expect him to pull his clothes on and get gone, or to hide in a cupboard or sneak out of a window. He’d do either of those things, if they’re what Louis wants, but fuck, he hopes they aren’t.

He wants to take them to the pool in the morning, or to see _Dinosaurs In The Wild_ exhibit at Eventcity, or take them on a day trip to the Chestnut Conservation and Wildlife Park in High Peak. He wants to take them for a walk with his dogs, and hold Louis’s hand in the street and buy him a cappuccino at a nice little cafe.

He wants to forget his jumper here, and trust Louis to give it back.

“Cold as arse out there,” Louis’s muttering as he comes back into the bedroom, precariously balancing two full mugs and a bowl of snacks. Nick helps him put things on the bedside table and holds the covers up so he can crawl back underneath them. Louis settles close against him, dropping his head to Nick’s shoulder.

He’s soft and fond and sleepy, loose-limbed and easy like he’s just been fucked, like Nick didn’t just wank him off on top of the covers like they’re still teenagers. He let Nick take his clothes off after that, let Nick nuzzle his tattoos and kiss his mouth, and then Louis slipped his hand into Nick’s boxers and sorted him out properly.

And then they talked, just a little, whispered conversation on a shared pillow while Louis stroked Nick’s hair and shoulders and looked at him like he was special. Nick’s heart feels all tender and sore and soft in his chest. Nick doesn’t know if he could ever deserve this sort of… whatever this is, whatever this could be.

“Dead nice, this,” he says as he bites into an apple slice. He wants to say something coy like _should shag dads more often,_ but he doesn’t want to make light of tonight, or say anything that might ruin this. “Good company _and_ good snacks.”

Louis shrugs, dipping a biccie in his tea and shoving all of it in his mouth at once. “Never really eat before gigs, I was starving.”

“That’s what you get for staying up all night snogging random fanboys.”

“Don’t,” Louis says quickly. He chews the rest of his biccie slowly, like he’s working out what to say. “You’re not that.”

That soft thing inside Nick squeezes tight again. “Fanmen, then.”

“Don’t do that. Tonight was so nice. You made it…” He pauses, clearing his throat. He sounds all serious as he presses his forehead against Nick’s naked shoulder. “You know.”

Nick turns his head, brushing his lips against Louis’s temple and bringing his arms around his back. “Yeah?”

“And I don’t,” Louis starts, then goes quiet for a long moment. “I don’t really date.”

“Me neither,” Nick confesses. “Mostly I have crap sex with strangers who don’t stick around for breakfast.”

Louis sits back a little to meet his eyes, pulling his bottom lip into his mouth. Fuck, Nick already has the worst obsession with that mouth. “At least you got breakfast this time.”

Nick frowns, still unsure of what to make of all this. “This wasn’t crap sex.”

If he’s honest, it was different to any sex he’s ever had with anyone else. Different to Seth. So, so _different_.

“It’s fine if it was,” Louis says, sounding embarrassed. “I know I’m not… experienced, or whatever.”

“It wasn’t. Trust me.” Nick frowns. “Was it crap for you?”

Louis’s face flushes the most delicious shade of pink. He bites down on his lip again, his brow furrowing. It makes Nick want to spread him out on his stomach and lick every inch of him and bury himself deep. “You know it wasn’t.”

Nick’s breath feels all caught up in his chest. It’s almost too much, already, how gone he is for this boy. “Shame you don’t date, then. I would’ve left my number.”

“Maybe you still could,” Louis says, almost nonchalantly, except for how he starts intensely peeling an orange, in lieu of looking Nick in the eye. “If you want.”

“I want,” Nick says again. “I really fucking want.”

Louis looks up then, cautiously meeting his eyes. He clears his throat, looks genuine in a way that Nick’s not used to when he says, “Me, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr post](http://jiksax.tumblr.com/post/167909857154/there-now-steady-love)
> 
> Title from [Louis Tomlinson's cover of the Fray's "Look After You"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zVjxRbN-JVs).


End file.
